.Hmmm.

"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."

From Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman

.Hope.

Dear Universe,

Christmas is approaching but good spirits are not. Well, tequila has been visiting quite regularly and when it does, I'm quite merry but...oh Universe, where is my spicy chai gingerbread fairy light santa hat feeling that I'm supposed to get?! It was the same last year: it crept in like a lover well after bed-time, sheepish and drunk and then left me before reaching its accustomed zenith. It is no exaggeration to say that it breaks my heart to think that the usual Christmas ecstasy is a thing of the past, a thing of youth. Oh I know that I am still 'young' as it were but I think that this is the year that I started becoming an adult (though I will always be a child!).

I'm alright, Universe. Which is awful, as you know. 'Alright' has never been good enough for me. As usual I want conflicting things: I'd like some drama in my life, something to challenge me and make me feel but at the same time, I want things to be simple and... oh come on, woman, that's bull shit and you know it! I take it back, Universe, I take it back! How dull would life be if things were simple! Fuck it, you have my permission to go crazy! Send me love, Universe! I think I could take it (finally). Send me experiences! More, I haven't had enough even though I'd had a lot. Send me more funny moments and coincidences and cute boys to objectify! Send me heart-to-hearts over ice-cream, and shots on a school night! Send me courage, Universe! Send me the courage to keep smiling, to take care of myself, to push myself, to dare....

I'm alright, Universe, but I don't want to be alright. I want to feel electric all the time. I want to stop regrets. I want to be confetti-me, not awkward, scratchy-me. Give me strength to hope, Universe. You know, I've never asked for this before but I think it would be a good time for a Christmas miracle. That would be lovely to see, even if it wasn't for me.

Yours hopefully,
Alexia

.Confession.

Dear Universe,

There are aspects of myself that I don't recognise these days. I am trying to be honest but this is making me softer somehow. There have been walls in place for so long that I just assumed it was because I built them to last. It seems that they were not diamond-hard or skyscraper-tall after all. It's like realising that your walls are nothing but flimsy curtains you never thought to part. When I make coffee in the morning, I boil too much water. When I meet guys I don't think of them as conquests or burdens anymore. When night floats down on me, there is too much space in my bed so I sleep bang smack in the middle of it.
I don't like this side of me.
I don't like how easy it is to be disappointed; when you uncross your arms and uncurl your fists, and still having nothing in the palm of your hand.
I don't like how suddenly I don't know how to play the game, when I used to get royalties for writing the rules.
I don't like feeling desperate just because I exhibited an iota of interest.
I don't like feeling like the average girl, waiting for some guy to get in touch.
That's not me.

Tomorrow I'm going to put on my super-cool warrior mask again. I shall play the role of the independent woman fiercely. I shall sneer at couples and pretend to throw up when someone mentions relationships. Universe, I shall mock love. It seems that this is when you like to send it my way. I never cared for love and yet there was always someone there to love me. This summer I vowed to cease my iciness when dealing with men. Fat lot of good it did me.

Tomorrow I will be unattainable again (this will make men want to attain me of course) but I thought you might like to know that I confessed to (perhaps, maybe) being open to love. Even if it was just for a little while.

I have an inkling that I'm going to get a visit from Irony soon. If that's the case, can it be at some point next week? I need some time to readjust to my old skin. Plus, I think I'm going away this weekend...which is probably why you'll do it exactly then. Shit, you don't need to think of ways to fuck me over; I do it for you.

As ever, yours faithfully,
Alexia

.Smoky November Nights.

Dear Universe,

It is almost one in the morning and I should be asleep; story of my life.

So, August is long gone, and most of November too. You know this already, being the universe and all, but I'm well. I have my good days, my bad days, my in-between days, but all in all, I would have to admit that I am pretty content. Life is busy. I'm always broke and I've been acting like a ho, but it's all good in the 'hood as I would say if I were a product of my generation.

Having been infatuated with the freedom of youth since I turned 18, it seems strange to me to harbour sudden desires to grow up. No, I don't mean that I want to be mature and have little Lexi-spawn. Rather, I want to be a grown-up so that I can dress the way I want without being called a geriatric. Is it so wrong to want a life where I can wear cocktail dresses as casually as all-stars?!

Perhaps I should think about developing the whole 'maturity' thing a tad more.

I told The Ex to fuck off on Friday Unfortunately, I didn't say it like that. Still, message received and, the two times I ran into him (yeah, sure, NOW I run into him), he ignored me. Awesome. Still, do I care? Let's say no. Sure, I'll probably always be a bit crazy when it comes to him, blah blah, blah, but, for now, crisis averted, heart in tact. Besides, what served as my distraction to The Ex may be becoming the focus. So Universe, do you think I have the balls to like someone and let them like me back? Let's find out!

PS: May change this to a poetry blog. It's the only thing I write regularly.

#3: Body and Soul

Dear Universe,

I just wanted to thank you for August. It wasn't the best month. In fact, it was the most awkward month of the year for me. I felt out of place, like a collage. My self-assurance just fizzled out...over-use I guess. No, I am thanking you for its sheer beauty.

You'd might like to know that issues with The Ex are stopping and starting like a much-loved jalopy that you know you should take to a nice farm. It is odd to want to be with someone you might not even like, to want to be with them even though you know they will break your heart. It is odd to know that you will always be in love with each other, but also that it will never work. Can't live with him, can't live without him, to the max. Did I say 'in love'? Take that with an ocean of salt. Everybody knows that this girl doesn't 'do' love. He reminds me why I avoid relationships. So why do I jump straight into him and his words? Did I say 'girl'? I meant to say 'woman'. Whether he agrees or not. Hey Universe, next time I fall in love, can you make sure it's a man who sees me as a woman and not a boy who thinks I'm a girl? Oh and one who isn't such a sexist little beast. While the irony of a feminist falling for a chauvinist may seem fucking hilarious to you but, personally, I find it a bit annoying.

My friend Echo ( who has a spectacular blog at www.hopedieslast.wordpress.com ) told me about some theory which suggests that falling in love has to do with one particular gesture or attitude. One little thing and we're stuck like a thief in a catflap. I know if I agree with that but it would explain a few things. The Ex and his damn kisses. It would be no exageration to say that I crave his affection.

Before I shut up, I'd like to promise you that my next letter will consist of more than The Ex. I am not a woman whose life revolves around men. Next time you shall read about alcohol, silk robes, the blues and my pathetic writing career.

Hope all's well in ...the milky way? Are you in the milky way or is it the other way round? If it is the other way around, what are you in?

Respectfully,
Alexia

Letter to the Universe #2

Dear Universe,

It's been a while since my last confession. I'm confusing religions here. This is especially funny because you are not a religion. So sue me. Or do what you do best, send that bitch, Karma, my way. I digress. You know what they say though- a digress can't change its inability to shut the hell up.

I've got to say I'm pretty happy to be writing this letter to you. You see, this time, for once, I actually have something to confess. Now, I know that some bitchy words were exchanged when you sent me The Ex last time. I wish I could say that I didn't mean it, but I did. There was no need for you to draw that card, man (woman?). Still, somehow it's all worked out. Wait, that's bull shit. It's just started, how could it be worked out?

Here's the deal-io, a few weeks after the whole X Fiasco, I'd regained control of my emotions and even thanked him for acting like a dick and leaving me alone. So, I'm fine, resigned to a life of celibacy, but fine. Not good enough for you, huh Universe? You go and send him to me again. Now, I know you know all this, being the universe and all, I just want to make sure that we're on the same page so bear with me, OK? Luckily, I'm prepared this time. I remember that I am a woman warrior, proud, guarded and strong. I will abstain, I told myself.

Universe, the only thing I abstained from, was the aforementioned celibacy. Oops.

I was uber cool though. You would have been proud of me. The funny thing is, I didn't mean to be cool; I was just naturally really chilled with the situation. So imagine my surprise when he seems reluctant to see me! I told him not to call me and then went out with another ex.

So thank you Universe, for giving me the opportunity to act like a ho sans guilt. It was awesome.

Of course, then The Ex called me again. Now, the issue is, how do I convince the guys that it's alright for me to see two men, but that they should see only me. Hm, pickle. Still, where there's a willy, there's a way and I will think like a man (big change there) and come up with a solution to continue my amoral ways. Oh if only I were truly amoral! Then I could just lie!

Just one little favour, Universe- please don't send a third. Peace out.

Yours truly,
Alexia

My Other Half Is Not A Man, It's My Left Side

I feel like I live two lives. There is the half that is bright and juicy and warm and then there is the half that is empty and grey and moot. I love life and I'm very lucky in many ways, in most ways actually, and yet I cannot shake off the sense that my life is quite often a void. Is Loneliness a regular guest in most people's lives? 'Cos I feel like it's my wife. Or husband. Either way I'm its bitch. No wonder I can't hold down a relationship; that would be bigamy and I've never been a cheater. It's starting to get a bit frustrating now. Isn't it about time that The Universe gave me a break?
On the plus side, I'm getting September tingles and they feel awesome, like mini orgasm replacements! Here are a few things I'd like to accomplish this year:

1. Get a job that will take me in some sort of direction.
2. Send my novel off to more agents.
3. Do some travelling.
4. Be super-toned.
5. Commit more random acts of kindness.
6. Read a classic.
7. Make some new Friends.

Wow, I would love a glass of wine right now. And someone random to call me for a chat and a smoke on my balcony. Or even someone specific. Shit this is a boring Saturday night! Yet suddenly I feel cheerful! This is funny! My life is funny!

.

I have a cocktail, a cigarette and candlelight. I have my cat purring next to me. I have Dinah and Billie and Nina. I have a gentle August breeze whispering through my balcony. Yet...

At the age of twenty-four, it has come to my attention that the tough, no one-can-hurt-me shield I've been carrying since the first time I loved has not been protecting me at all. By denying men the opportunity to love me I have, in effect, also denied them the opportunity to love me. No, that is a mistake to say, for I am certain that I have been loved and deeply so throughout the years, despite my fierce objections. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have denied myself the opportunity to love. Surely it is not healthy to dream about love, not when I am the obstacle. Yet...

I am open to meeting someone. Honestly. What seems to come so naturally to others though, to meet someone that sets off fireworks in their chest, is something that rarely comes my way. Damn me for wanting it all or nothing at all. Sometimes I wish I could bring myself to settle. There are so many lovely men out there, all my male friends included, but they don't make me zing.

It irks me to feel like such a Bridget cliche. These thoughts and feelings I've been having are exactly the sort that I've shunned, even ridiculed in the past. Now I am a cliche in itself. The unttainable, head-strong, unattainable, feminist party girl who justs wants to someone to kiss her forehead.

I am still of the opinion that I don't need a man, it's just that I'd like someone to take the reins for a while. I'm a prickly woman and I'm tired of having to deal with my own tantrums and neuroses.

This is all so foolish. I know what this boils down to. I'm tired of moving around and refusing to hold on to one address or one job. I want to start succeeding. I just don't know how. I have a lot of thinking to do. No, no more thinking. I have a lot of deciding to do. And even more doing.

Last night I lost my phone. And quite possibly my shoes. I think I have to break up with vodka. It's not a healthy relationship. I do remember that I was running through the club (as you do on four inch heels) and, just as I got back to the table, I fell. Perhaps 'fell' is not an appropriate term for what I did because I was so graceful in doing so. I kind of dropped to the floor of the emptying club (maximum exposure), like a petal, and giggled.

Seriously, where the hell are my shoes?

.Restless Abandonment.

The city is drenched in heat as July blooms. It is unbearable to be outside sweating in the sweltering, palpable air. The cicadas punctuate all sounds with the tattooing of their song. My breath is thick any time I venture out. I chose a great season to work with children. Yes, I have been entrusted with the care of twenty six-year olds. I love them but dear god do they drive me crazy. Teaching is exhausting, let me tell you.

Talk of getting a proper teaching certificate has instigating a tapping of the feet. I think that maybe I've been in Greece for too long. It's been over six months, over six months! What is next for me? Asia again? A stint in Tokyo that was supposed to happen this May? Maybe South America for some margaritas, enchiladas and latin loving. Should I be settling down? Do I give a shit?

All I know for certain is that I'm restless and I don't see that changing any time soon... no matter how many countries I go to.

.Happiness is... everchanging.

I don't remember much of last night which means it must have been good. The X madness has ceased. Thankfully, it lasted for three days only. Sheer stubborness makes me not think about him. Who was I kidding? The only commitment I should make is my own to an institution. Maybe we'll be together again one day but right now we're too young and fucked up. Then again, perhaps in a decade I'll just be older and fucked up.

Summer is in full-swing. I'm loving the heat. Even the stickiness is welcome this year. I'm digging the beach, the sandals, the brown skin, the cocktails... If only life could be summer all the time. I'm starting to think that I don't do the cold.

In eleven minutes I'm going to start strolling down to the pub. Me, an Ipod and bare streets.... I am truly beginning to love my little walks. Though I think that maybe I go out too much. I slept at 6am and woke up at 2pm on Friday. My accomplices refused to go out with me again last night. I ended up repeating Friday. It was like Groundhog weekend, only the faces changed.

It is such a goddamn relief not to be unhappy. I might even dare say that I'm quite the opposite. Good lord, I think I'm actually happy.

.Letter to the Universe.

Dear Universe,

Now that I'm happy again and shit, I was thinking that maybe it was time to start lookin' for some lovin' again. Well, I remember what one of your disciples told me a couple of years ago, that if you really want something and are willing to open your heart to it, the Universe (you) will give it to you.

Why not, I thought. Why not give it a try?

So I did Universe. I struggled, I really did, but somehow I prised my heart open, even if it was only a teensy little hole. Then I waited. A few months down the line I thought, chill dude. Watched pots never boil and all that jazz.

So I did Universe, I totally chilled. I decide to enjoy my single time and do all the things that I love so much that I wouldn't be able to do in a relationship. I drank, I flirted... OK, actually, that's basically it. In fact, one could say that I was happily single. Having developed an aversion to relationships early on in adulthood, I reminded myself constantly that, yes, singledom was good, but don't freak out if a dude comes along wanting to love you and shit. I'm prepared, I thought. I can do this.

So we arrive at last Wednesday... Universe, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but when I asked you to send me someone, out of all the guys in your backyard, why the hell did you send me The Ex? You must know that I can't control myself around him. After so many years of cultivating my cool, unattainable, free-spirited persona.... you go and do something like that. Nice one.

I became seventeen again, Universe. I would have evened out pretty quickly, yes. After all, I am stronger than I was back then. Nicer too. But he didn't get to see that side, did he? After six years of building walls, they crumpled in as many hours. Pathetic.

So here I am, exactly one week later, back at square one because, despite the enormity of emotions, at the end of the day, the dude comes from a different part of the pond. Of course there is no future, right? I am an absent-minded carebear, albeit a bitchy one with a spicy temper. He's... well, a carebear he ain't. We come from different worlds. Hey, didn't you publish a book on women and men coming from Venus and Mars... huh, maybe you're on to something there.

So I am still single, though not exactly blissfully. I'm still a bit stunned, kind of like, whoa, what just happened? I feel like this is something I have to get over. How can a couple of trips to the beach be something I have to get over? I can't help it. The guy makes me feel good. Then again, it's kind of like how heroin makes a junkie feel good... you get the picture.

So thanks Universe. Thanks a whole fucking lot. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and treat this like some kind of test. You're just fucking with me, right? The real knight* is just around the corner.

You know, you've just cost me a fortune in cocktails and girly time. Not to mention the fact that my walls have gone up a bit higher. This is like some messed up video game where any mistake can lock you up in the proverbial tower FOREVER. Plus, who knows what silly things I'm going to do with strange boys on nights out. You know how reckess I can be when I've got my drink on.

I'll have a shot in your honour tonight, maybe the first, maybe the seventh, maybe all of them. I'll toast to you getting it right. For once in my twenty four years on this planet, get it right and let me be happy for a little while. Why can't I have a normal adult relationship like everyone else?

Thank you for your time and consideration, Universe. No hard feelings.
I look forward to hearing from you shortly.

Yours faithfully (though it's dwindling),
Alexia


PS: I wonder if YOU are seeing anyone at the moment, Universe. Maybe that would explain your dishevelled organisation skills these days. Just thought I'd ask.

* For all the feminists out there, I use the term 'knight' loosely. Obviously I can take care of myself. It would just be nice to let someone take the wheel every now and then. I fully intend to be their knightette in return.

.Sunset Pedicure.

The sun flickered in,
pinked up my room as if
the world outside
was on fire.
Though the world
was burning,
I did not move.
I lay,
still as a stone,
staring at my toes
which had been
pedicured
just that morning.

I felt my eyes glaze,
as they rolled in my skull,
and my lips lay limp
against my teeth.
I think my mind was empty,
just cobwebs,
maybe dust, swirling instead.

There were books on the shelf
whose titles I could not read,
and photos of strangers
hung up on my wall.
One of them was crooked,
looked like it might fall,
but it didn’t bother me
at all.

There was no reflection in the mirror
(though it might have been the angle)
and I don’t remember blinking.
If I breathed I made no sound.

I can’t be sure but
all the pink I saw was
from the same
sunset,
even though it is Spring now

And I pedicured my toes in Autumn.

.Apple-kiwi-tinis and Other Stories.

Last night we went to what could be deemed as our local. Designed to resemble a house, we stalked past the living room, the library, the gamesroom and the kitchen and headed straight for the garden. The 'garden' happens to be half a hundred pairs of deckchairs on the beach, each couple illumiated by a single gargantuan candle.

I've developed the habit of asking bartenders to surprise me with cocktails (Rules: Strong, No Gin, No Orange, No Soda) and was delighted with an apple-kiwi-tini with a strawberry on the side. Half-way through, I looked up and saw the moon, crescent-shaped and ocre-hued and I realised how lucky we are. Beach, moon, cocktails... this is our local. It was magnificent. Life is so damn cool.

Oh and I'm aching all over and I can't decide whether it's because I danced my booty off, walked in painfully high heels or because I actually tried pilates the other day.

Am I supposed to write in here daily?

Two days since my London-Paris-London trip and already the memories are all but lingering on the edge of today and the dawn of a Greek summer.

I've had one song on loop in my mind all day: 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot'. More than once I've wondered, whose shot? but then I forget again and continue my indoor singing which consists of the five words in the title... I don't know the rest of the lyrics.
Alas, it is one of those sad times when I am crushless. Mega-alas, this is not unusual. I'm as pretty/ nice/ smart/ fucked up as the next person so most people are surprised to hear that I am chronically single. The simple truth is that I don't often meet guys with whom I click. Or girls for that matter. Oh well.

I took a picture of myself with a polaroid camera and wished I had a friend to mess about with. That reminded me of my unemployedom and now I'm feeling all incompetent and stuff. I shouldn't. I mean, I have been writing a book and all that jazz. Somehow, things only seem to matter when somebody else gives you credit. Gods of the agents, make them publish my book.

On the plus side I saw a psychic the other day and she said lots of good little things about me. She told me some things I already knew, like how I have so many angels protecting me that I glow (I bet I just lost one for feeling smug). My Mommy has said that to me a couple of times. I don't believe in God but I'm spiritual fo' shiz.

Paris is a dirty city full of skanks. I loved it. Not for those reasons. Pixie and I made it into Our Paris, complete with cheese, baguettes, four-poster beds, designer dresses, cocktails and espressos. For the city of love... well let's just say that there aren't a lot of good-looking genes in Paris. I had two encounters with men. One brushed up against my derriere three times, accidentally I'm sure, and the other was a green-eyed god who was attending a funeral at the time.
No wonder my mother despairs of me.

I was away for a week. In Brick Lane on Friday I wore 5 layers (a corset, a t-shirt, a vest, a cardigan and a jacket) and froze my toes off on every cigarette break. On Saturday, dirty, hungover and broke, I flew home. As soon as I landed in Athens I shed my clothes like petals. I got rid of my duvet. I flipped my winter wardrobe into a suitcase and flung out my summer one. Oh summer, how I have missed you! I can already smell the salt, the sweat... you can smell the heat in Greece. You can feel heat, not as a temperature, but as a something tangible, hot hands suffocating you, paralysing you.

Pixie and I are in talks to go study French in Paris at the end of the year. Bring it on, I say. Then I'll be off to Australia for a few months. I'll see my friend who just got knocked up, save some cash and then meet Pixie again, only in South America this time. I'm positive that we won't be able to resist New York on the way back. Ah New York... one say we shall meet and it shall be sweet.

Huh and I thought the poet in me was dormant.

.Little Girl Tears.

For the second time these days I feel an overwhelming sadness brimming inside. The first time was on Saturday, at five o'clock in the morning, after I twisted with the best of them at a local club. The gang, all of them strangers bar one who was my pseudo brother, was sitting in a creperie eating delights smothered in chocolate and hazelnuts, coconut and strawberries.
'Would you like some?' they asked. I shook my head from side to side and smiled.
'Are you sure?'
'Oh yes,' I said, but the truth is that I wanted some very much.

For the countless time in my life, I digress.

Suddenly, the male to my right, the boring male who hit on me earlier on, much to my chagrin, said something along the lines of being tired of listening to the Jews go on about the Holocaust.

Self-righteous by nature and with enough whiskey in me to argue with this stranger in this well-lit cafe, my eyes widened and I said, 'Excuuuse me?'
'They don't let us forget it,' he said. The table agreed.
'They shouldn't!' I said. 'Millions of people died!'
'Lots of other countries have suffered the same fate,' they argued. 'Maybe worse.'
'They should not be forgotten either. Germany has been politically correct for sixty years,' I said. 'The Americans have destroyed three different countries in half that time. Maybe if Vietnam or Kuwait made a big fuss, Iraq wouldn't be happening right now.'
'Ah,' they said. 'You have a point.'

It went on like this for a while and then I fell silent, feeling the issue of intolerance weigh heavily on my shoulders. It sounds silly but I was suddenly overwhelmed by people's inability to get along. Don't hate anyone for their skin colour or religion or sexuality. It's so damn simple!

In the car my friend said, 'You made some good points in there.'
I replied flatly, 'It's just common sense.'


The second sadness will sound utterly ridiculous.
Realising that my copy (1950's editon) has been missing for some years now, I did some quick research to see how easy it will be to find again. (Not that it matters, I want my copy, nothing will replace that.) I came across some information about the rights being sold for a movie. To a company called Chick Flicks.

Readers, I cried.

Having had a few minutes to compose myself, I think I have pinpointed the reasons for my tears. Recently, I was watching some dumb film with Sarah Michelle Gellar. Suddenly, it seemed familiar. It was in fact one of my favourite books: The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing, only it wasn't called that anymore and they took out all the quirky, dark parts to make it into some stupid romcom. The very next day I find out that Gellar will be playing in the film version of another favourite book of mine- Veronika Decides to Die. Sarah Michelle as Veronika. Have you heard of anything so absurd?

I think I cried because they're butchering these beautiful little books, rendering them into the film equivalent of the colour beige to appeal to the masses.

Damnit, I was having a grand day up until now. I washed my hair and sang along with Elvis Costello and Neneh Cherry and Fatboy Slim. I was really loving life today. And so I shall continue! After all, I am going for cocktails tonight...

.A Digress Can't Change Her Stripes.

Last week I went to a new place with my ex. I fell in love with one and smoothed things over with the other. Before I went I thought, What the hell was I thinking inviting the ex to go on holiday with me? I knew that this trip would either become a gargantuan mistake or it would untie the knots in our relationship. I am lucky. It was the latter.

Our common ground was Brussels. I spent my first few hours in this city feeling small and lost. I was supposed to go see my friend but he ended up having to go to Austria for a last-minute business trip (hence the clever invitation to the ex). Eventually I found my way to his flat (thanks for the lack of directions, asshole) where I plunged the key into the door, only to discover it wouldn't budge. After jiggling it around, somewhat manically, I burst, unashamedly, into tears, right in the middle of that quaint, Belgian street. As soon as I called my mother, the door flung open; her magic can cross countries.

Upstairs, I found a pile of dirty dishes, a single, unclean towel and a mug masquerading as an ashtray. Yes, I wept again.

Despite the distressing beginning to my trip, Brussels swept me away. It has a peculiar charm, a run-down delicacy, a gritty quaintness about it. It is, without a doubt, the most polite city I've evern been to. People in the street stop to offer you their assisstance! Yet, I would not walk around by myself at night.

My favourite place was Les Marolles. The Jeu de Balle market is utterly divine! A whole world of junk and antiques- the most spectacular little finds! I bought a handmade, beaded 1930's purse, a tiny, embroisered portable ashtray and a tin with a rusty phoenix on the lid that was absolutely filled with buttons! We met a furniture maker called Stephan who divorced his Texan wife because she was crazy, who had gone from owning multiple houses to being homeless and back again, who paid for our coffee without telling us! When all the sellers had packed up and left, we wandered through the cobble stoned square and looked for neglected treasures. I found dozens of black and white photographs scattered all around like monochrome confetti! I'm going to make a collage... a collage of the histories of strangers.

Oh and I went to a Bob Dylan concert. He was so disappointing. I was told he would be but I think I hoped he wouldn't anyway.

Human tend to be sheep in disguise. Few people are Babes in this world. Trying doesn't mean we're not sheep. So here's my Happy List:

1. The first gust of warm air every spring.
2. Sundaes.
3. Bed-time. Especially if there's a hot water bottle involved. Oh or a lover!
4. Drivers letting me cross the street when there are no traffic lights involved.
5. Reunions with old friends.
6. The number thirty-three.
7. Cocktails.
8. When my cat sleep on my stomach. (OK, this happened only once but it made me really happy.)
9. Drunken 'no, I love YOU more' conversations.
10. Writing.

Greece refuses to warm up this year. I can't believe it's May and I'm still sleeping with my duvet. In Australia we call a duvet a 'doona'- isn't that so cute? I also love 'lollies' instead of 'candy'. Aw, I should relight my Aussie vocabulary.

Actually, maybe it's time I stick to a single vocabulary... and a single accent. I say pants and trousers. I say pant and underwear. I say cab and taxi. When I talk to my family or people in Australia (note, no necessarily Australians), I'm Aussie. In Britain, I speak English with an Aussie/ American twang. With everyone else I'm super American... and I've never even been there! I have a feeling I'll end up with an American accent...
I digress.

.25 by 25.

Inspired by Megan I decided to begin a list of goals for me to complete by the time I turn 25. Unfortunately, I have only nine months ot achieve them (so some might seem like a cop-out)! I used to have a wonderful notebook that was filled with random lists. I had it alongside my proper diary and only updated it once in a while. Among other things, it contained a list of ambitions (much like the one I posted recently), letters to my future soulmate and my honest opinions of those in my life the time.

So, here we go... this might take me a while...

1. Have healthy, long(er) hair. I went crazy with it three years ago (bleach, bleach, bleach, pink, blue, purple, red, bleach, pink) and now my hair just won't grow. This might have to do with the fact that I cut it when I'm bored or that I'm still dying it but sitll! It is growing slower than a snail slimes!
2. Send my completed novel out to publishers and/or agents.
3. Have an amazing first kiss.
4. Print some of my zillion photos.
5. Get a hyper cool camera.
6. Get super sharp calf muscles.
7. Get my teeth whitened.
8. Buy an incredibly hot bikini.
9. Brush up on my French.
10. Visit a new country (kind of cheating since I'm going to Brussels at the end of the month).
11. Compile enough poetry for a book.
12. Save up some serious cash.
13. Get my nose pierced... again.
14. Wash my teddy bear.
15. Write three children's stories.
16. Ride my bicycle.
17. Sew on all the missing buttons of my clothes.
18. Go to one of those cafes where you can paint mugs and stuff.
19. Embellish one of my tattoos.
20. Learn how to cook. Scrambled eggs don't count.
21. Put more shelves up in my room (come on Daddy).
22. Stand ballerina straight all the time.
23. Make those goddamn Red Velvet cupcakes, the recipe of which has been on my fridge since November.
24. Draw a birthday present for my sister.
25. Get rid of some clothes.

That was harder than I thought it would be. And my goals are much more boring than I thought they would be.

,Pomegranates, Popcorn and Pearls.

There is a site called Authonomy which is aimed at helping writers get notice and, hopfully, published. I posted the first draft of my novel there the other day and so far the feedback has been... well, pretty perfect. If you're bored or looking for something new to read or just flat-out interested, feel free to wander over and have a look. I'm pretty sure you need to register first but then a whole new world of books opens up to you. The title of my novel is also the title of this post. If you like what you read, back me up dudes! Put me on the shelf! (The Authonomy shelf is not to be confused with the spinster shelf which has, I feel, a certain stigma clinging to it.)

On Sunday night I smelt the summer whispering to me in the honeysuckle air. It was divine. I felt light and happy. I have started sleeping with my limbs poking out of the covers and with the window open. The breezes are warmer and breathing seems thicker somehow. I love summer. My summers flow with watermelon and white dresses, heat-drenched sand, frappes, island hopping, ripe brown tans and wine and poker on balconies. Good morning summer.

.Musings.

I'm lying on my bed, in the pyjamas I've been wearing for almost two days. There are builders outside my window and the noise they are making is absolute electric... but not in a good way. God bless city noise.

Earlier on, I was gazing off into the distance, as you do, and I realised that I am seeing things differently today. I think this is rather exciting. Today the world seems grainy like an old photograph. I noticed what looked like the softest powder shimmering down. Then I realised that I could see it everywhere. I'm still seeing it. The world seems transparent somehow, as if everything is just layer upon layer of light.
I promise I'm sober. Unfortunately.

I've got a ticket to Brussels but I don't know if I should go anymore. My friend just found out he has a business trip on the exact same dates. No, he's not trying to avoid me. I'm happy to go around the city alone but... it's the Bob Dylan concert that's stressing me out. I got us tickets for Christmas and I just don't want to go alone. At first I thought, I'll meet people in line. Then I realised that I DON'T SPEAK FRENCH! Unless I'm just going to order food from them. Which seems a bit rude.

I think I may go back to uni next year. I miss London. Perhaps if I'm super-busy, I won't notice the weather this time. Anyway, I have months to think about. For now, I'm going to stay here because the summer is coming and I love summers in Greece! In February next year I'm going to go to Australia and work until July to spend some time with family and friends and then, perhaps, onto London again. or maybe I should go work in South America for a bit. If I do my masters, I'll need to save some serious cash. Oh pickle.

Thinking about this is moot. As long as I'm doing something and enjoying myself, who cares?

Thirteen Things I Absolutely Must Achieve Before I Die.

In no particular order.
(Actually, in the order that I think of them, but that is not to indicate a scale of importance.)

1. Drink coffee without sugar or milk. Cafe noir if you will. It just sounds so goddamn cool.
2. Live with my French lover in a Parisian attic. It is preferable that he be an artist of some kind. Eat croissants for all meals, travel by bicycle, sing Piaf songs in the street when we're drunk on cheap red wine and ...well learning how to speak French would be excellent too.
3. Have long, lovely geisha hair. Maybe I should stop cutting my it.
4. Be a Mummy. This means that I want children who call me so. Ideally, all different colours. The rainbow family is so in but to my credit, I've always wanted one. Sorry Angelina, I thought of it first. Damn, maybe I should've gotten a paten.
5. Have a cat that's mine, all mine (as opposed to a family one) and name it after a great writer.
6. Get published, whether it be with my novel or my poetry. Oh or short stories! And I hate writing articles but I guess that would be OK too.
7. Familiarise myself with the numbered streets of New York. I think that living there would be a wonderful way to do this. My New York includes but is no limited to: bagels, people calling you 'buddy', picnics in Central Park, Breakfast at Tiffany's style parties, random blues bars and cosmos at an unrecognisable cuisine.
8. Own my own merry-go-round. In my garden maybe.
9. India. One day I will go to India with its spices and colours, smiles, old trains, its cows, its beads and its heat.
10. Love somebody without abandon. Offspring don't count. I want to love someone in that first-sight, whirlwind, can't breathe without each other, you complete me way. Oh and if it could last, that'd be lovely.
11. Make a difference. I have no idea how but it must be done.
12. Go snorkeling to get over my fear of the ocean. Fishies!
13. Own a punch buggy. Oh yeah. And, if possible, a vintage Astin Martin. OH YEAH.

I shall pause there because I love the number thirteen.

.Damn Cigarette.

Sometimes I wonder how it's possible for me to be so bored when there is so much going on out there. It truly boggles the mind- how the hell can we get bored of life? And yet.

I suppose I am just like anyone else, waiting for Life to really begin. Sometimes it comes to me, sometimes I run after it but, for the most part, I lie in bed and dream about it. I hope I don't turn into an old woman sitting in her rocking chair on the front porch watching the world go by with her sad eyes.

The awful thing is that usually I just forget. I forget to find something random and special in my day or to do something different. Whoever reads this entry, please go out there and discover something today- whether it be a dainty flower growing through a crack in the pavement, the thought to do a good deed, a drfiting balloon in a grey sky or a smile from a stranger.

I'd feel better if I had a damn cigarette.

.Counting Lovers Like Stars.

Counting lovers like stars. Candles
Burning in empty wine bottles.
Hair is pulled back, singing the blues
Once more, no longer amused and
The sun rises, blooms like a lily
In a rainbow sky. Still, it's silly,
This desire to be loved the way
I want to be loved. So each day
I play lovers like piano keys,
Leaving like a butterfly on a careless breeze.

One day, puled back my eyelashes will rise.
The piano will burn, disappear with a sigh.
The darkness, like me, will be silent and still.
In the sun I will rise, rise until

There is a word in the dark.
And it is ugly and stark.

Pink Balloon

My reflection on the train is blurred. I am out of focus, a picture taken by a child. I am transparent too, like a colourful shadow. It is so easy to look through myself. Other people seem to be stroke after stroke of perfect letters and words and paragraphs, and then there is me: one silly scribble to mar the page. I am envious of their definition, their clean-cut lines and eyes that aren't lost. I suppose, to strangers, my lines seem clean-cut also, not frayed as they feel. Life is so uncomplicated when it's not your own. Something tugs in my hand and I remember my stolen pink balloon. It has settled against the window, hanging limply like an empty womb, my hand gripping its silver umbilical chord.

I had a soul in my womb once; a cluster of cells, a pearl my jewel of the sea. Memories of high-school scares faded into ridiculousness as the reality of the situation evaporated any dramatisation. He came in me and I knew instantly. I felt him go through me like arrows and a pinprick of light started glowing in my womb immediately. I took a morning after pill and then forgot all about it. I adopted a craving for cheese and an intolerance for any transport. One day I realised that I'd worn my white shorts for the entire month of February.
I was dreaming about the ocean when I got the results- one blue line too many. I thought about her all day, knowing that we wouldn't have much time together. Like Cinderella I was home by midnight, rum and remorse flowing through my body. A few hours later my boyfriend stumbled home so that I could spend the night making sure he didn't fall asleep in his own vomit. Silently I thanked him for reminding me how young and selfish we were.
I suffered silently and solitarily. I was selfish. I insisted that she was something I need to lose alone. He did not possess a womb. His hormones were not causing constant tears and he still enjoyed cheese the way a regular person would; he could never understand. I wish he'd fought for his right to sadness. I wish he'd be more indignant or even goddamn angry that I was refusing him the right to feel any connection at all to something we would never have. But he didn't.
One day I woke up and there was no glow in the heart of my womb. A few weeks later I put my hand between my legs instinctively, just in time to catch pieces of me as they fell out of my body. A hoarse cry tumbled out of my mouth as I realised what I was holding, my jewel of the sea, nothing more but a few slabs of meat.

The train skids in to the station and I pause for too long until I unfold myself to rise. The doors beep their warning but I leap through them anyway. The slam of their meeting coincides neatly with the clattering of my heels against the platform. There is a moment of silence, a revival of the engine roar and then a sharp tug. I am spun like wool as I realise that I am no longer with balloon; it is being mimscarried by the train. I am left with nothing but a severed umbilical chord, its silver fading fast, and a long walk home.

.After You've Gone.

Now listen honey while I say,
How can you fix your mind to say you're going away?
Don't say that we must part,
Don't break my aching heart.

You know you love me,
Through for many years.
Love me night and day;
Can't you see my tears?
How can you leave me?
Listen while i say:

After you've gone
and left me crying,
After you've gone there's no denying,
You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad,
You'll miss the dearest pal you ever had.

There'll come a time, don't you forget it,
There'll come a time when you'll regret it.
Some day when you grow lonely,
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only,
After you've gone, after you've gone away
After you've gone and left me crying,
After you've gone there's no denying,
You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad,
You'll miss the dearest pal you ever had.

There'll come a time, don't you forget it,
There'll come a time when you'll regret it.
Some day when you grow lonely,
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only,
After you've gone, after you've gone away
Oh yeah
After you've gone, after you've gone away

.Behind Bars.

I just made this blog so that I could post a comment on my friend's diary.
But I guess now that I am here I might as well mention that yesterday I realised that one day I want to be one of those uber-tough bar women. You know, the bars that are dark all the time, even during the mesimeri, and with a slight nod the bouncer (a Hell's Angel type who will adore me of course) will kick out whomever I want. And when people ask for shots, I"ll just set them up in a row and run the bottle across them. And there'll be no boss there, I'll be in charge, so when it's busy I can just curl up in a corner and read. And drink.
And my mother tries to tell me that I lack ambition.